


two pump chumps

by astroeulogy



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Switching, bickering as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27843829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astroeulogy/pseuds/astroeulogy
Summary: Nothin’ short of the sky crackin’ open and a vengeful god striking Omi down is gonna stop him from making up the two-point gap between their service ace count. Japan’s gonna win this game, but for the first time in a season and a half, Atsumu is gonna lose their bet.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 80
Kudos: 893
Collections: COMFY TIMES, sakuatsu lol screaming





	two pump chumps

**Author's Note:**

> before we jump into this, i wanna give a huge thanks to quip and grace for their endless encouragement and for beta reading this monster for me! this story would never have happened without the two of them.

Playing volleyball on the Olympic level makes center court feel like the center of the universe. Like the entire world is revolving around the game at hand. Like each body packed into the stadium is some kind of ancient, burning star. Instead of the absence of sound, the _abundance_ of it creates its own sort of vacuum.

Only the shrill cry of the substitution whistle manages to break through.

For a moment, no one breathes. Then Kageyama Tobio, face contorted in a constipated scowl, dutifully makes his way to the sidelines, and all at once the sounds of the Olympic stadium rush back in. Atsumu pushes his paddle into Tobio’s chest and takes his rightful place on the court.

He knows before the ball’s even in his hands that it’s going to be a service ace—he feels it in his blood and bones. The point is his to take. It was his before the whistle was even blown.

Now it shrieks again, but he hears it like it’s far away. Every time he serves, time itself seems to expand while the world around him contracts until it’s small enough to fit in these eight crucial seconds. Atsumu’s eight crucial seconds. He draws a breath, takes his steps, and makes his toss. A throw, a leap, and a swing. All he can do with eight seconds is make them count.

The ball connects. Nothin’ but urethane. A perfect, unchallenged service ace.

The scoreboard ticks over. 9:11, Japan.

_Again_ , the blood sings in his veins. _Again, again, again._

So he does it again. And one more time, for good measure. Distantly, he hears the whistle blow and blow. Around him, the stadium roars with the cheers of his fans, the jeers of those supporting his opponents. _This_ , Atsumu’s absolutely certain, is as alive as he’ll ever feel.

It drives him ever-forward, onward and upward. Anything he has to do to feel the rush of center court, the thrill pumping through his veins, Atsumu will do. Whatever it takes to keep hold of this feeling a little longer.

He puts all his love into the next serve. Maybe that’s why it feels like heartbreak seein’ it get received. The ensuing rally must last a full minute or more, but by the time Atsumu’s swapped out again, it feels like only seconds have passed. His time as the sun had come and gone in a flash, and every moment of it had been cool as hell.

The scoreboard ticks again. 10:13, Japan. But as Atsumu returns to the sidelines, he’s crunching an entirely different set of numbers. Three service aces puts him at 12 for the day. Which is good, yeah, but not his best. Not unbeatable.

The scoreboard Atsumu’s been mentally maintaining this entire game says 12:10 in his favor. It’s not their most impressive showing, but Omi’s been bitchin’ about a phantom twinge in his shoulder, Atsumu’s only been able to serve one rotation per set, and they’re up against another team full of Olympians—so he’s choosin’ not to look too closely at the numbers.

What matters is this: a difference of two is _nothin_ ’. Between the sheer fuckin’ power he’s got in his dominant arm and the spring-loaded snap of those lethal wrists of his, Omi’s serves are the stuff of nightmares. Or wet dreams, maybe. Probably depends on what side of the court you’re watchin’em from. Point being: even if one guy on the other team gets kinda used to the speed and strength Omi dishes up from the serving line, that still won’t account for the nastiness of the serves’ spins or the unpredictability of where the ball’s _actually_ gonna connect.

Nothin’ short of the sky crackin’ open and a vengeful god striking Omi down is gonna stop him from making up the two-point gap between their service ace count. Japan’s gonna win this game, but for the first time in a season and a half, Atsumu is gonna lose their bet.

He watches Omi step into position. The red of their national team uniforms doesn’t look as good on him as it does Atsumu—he’s too pale for it by half—but this late in the game he’s sportin’ a flush Atsumu can pick up all the way from the sidelines, and under the searing overhead lights the beads of sweat sparkling against his brow could almost be called pretty. You couldn’t fault a guy for wantin’ to touch him. Wantin’ to press his mouth to those moles of his just to see what they taste like.

“Nerve-racking, isn’t it?” Aran asks, and Atsumu just about jumps outta his skin. And maybe he hisses a little, sorta, which earns him raised eyebrows. “You okay?”

There’s a non-zero chance that Atsumu’s a little hard right now.

He doesn’t trust his voice, so he just nods. At the sound of the whistle, his attention’s jerked back to the court. To the high, straight toss Omi gives the ball, the powerful jump he makes, the elegant, brutal C-shape his body contorts into as he concentrates all the strength he needs into his arm and brings his palm down with precision, with prejudice.

Correction: there’s a non-zero chance that Atsumu’s _fully_ hard right now. He folds his arms in front of his lap and hunches a little cuz the last thing he needs is to insight a scandal at the 2021 Olympics. But _goddamn_.

Beside him, Aran whistles low and long, impressed. Of course he’s impressed. Atsumu’s had front row tickets to Omi’s serves for years now, and _he’s_ still impressed. If there’s a half-life on the effect of Omi’s service aces, it hasn’t been determined yet. Atsumu’s still the better server, yeah, but it’s not like he can watch _himself_ in the heat of the moment.

“How many’s he taken from them this game?” Aran asks as the teams reset. Omi tosses a ball back and forth from his left hand to his right, the ball fitting easily in the breadth of his big palms and the clutch of his spidery fingers. “Ten?”

“Eleven,” Atsumu corrects. The scoreboard ticks over. “Match point.”

Any service ace that’s also match point counts double in their bet. This is it. Five sets played hard and played well on the global stage, with all eyes on them, and it comes down to Sakusa Kiyoomi’s unwavering concentration and meticulous, reliable form. They’re gonna win. _Omi_ ’s gonna win.

The inevitability of it makes Atsumu’s body heat spike. They’ve got the rest of the afternoon and the entire night ahead of them, an assignment to share a room back at the Olympic Village, and a duffle from home filled with everything they’d need to see the bet through to its conclusion. For the first time since they agreed that the bet would carry over to the Olympics, Atsumu allows himself to feel it: excitement.

The whistle blows. The sounds of the stadium bleed away. All of Atsumu’s senses hone in on the slouching, sloping lines of Omi’s body as he waits out most of the allotted time. With the stakes sky-high, every second stretches into eternity. Atsumu tries to count them down in his head and loses track dozens of times over.

Finally, Omi sends the ball into the air, jumps after it, and brings his palm down with all the brutality he’s capable of—

It’s like rewindin’ and watchin’ a game tape he’s seen a thousand times. Atsumu knows what’s gonna happen before he actually sees it. He knows it as certainly as he knows his own name. Knows just as certainly that, no matter what anyone may argue later, it was abso-fuckin’-lutely intentional.

—sending the ball right into the libero’s pristine bump.

The rally begins. No service ace. But when Tobio gets lined up for a toss and puts it right into Omi’s hand not even twenty seconds later, Omi makes it count.

Game, set, match.

The stadium erupts around them, and players and staff storm the court in jubilation. It’s not the final match, but it’s an important one. One they needed to take to be another step closer to their goal of the gold. No one can be faulted for their joy, their exuberance, their eagerness to clap Tobio and Omi on their backs and thank them for takin’ that last point when it mattered. It’s a moment to be proud of, that they’ll all look back on fondly in the years to come.

Atsumu’s never been more furious.

*

Through the lens of Atsumu’s latent fury, all of the team’s post-match rituals blur together. All color and no form. He feels the air shift when he moves robotically from center court to the hallway leading to the locker room. Once there, he hears the slam of lockers and the hissing of hot water, and he breathes in the damp, heavy air. His teammates talk and tease and revel in the day’s triumph, but their words are all but entirely washed out by the shrill, persistent ringing in Atsumu’s ears—the psychosomatic manifestation of his temper.

Hot water takes the edge off. In the shower, Atsumu envisions his anger as a coat of mud being sloughed away inch by inch, leaving behind something clean and shiny and a little less eager to murder his boyfriend in cold blood, in broad daylight, on a camera feed being broadcast across the entire world. But only a little less, cuz he’s not a fuckin’ saint, and Omi’s a _cheater_.

The betrayal stings all the more for how fuckin’ _random_ it was. When has Sakusa Kiyoomi _ever_ been anything less than perfectly adherent to the rules? When has he ever been even a _little_ less competitive than Atsumu?

Atsumu must spend a lifetime in his stall cuz when he trudges out, towel wrapped low on his hips, held in place predominantly by the white-knuckled grip of his fist, Omi’s already out and fully dressed in his track suit—the red _seriously_ doesn’t suit him, and Atsumu allows himself to truly revel in that now that Omi’s on his shitlist—toweling his damp curls with a bored expression and generally doin’ a bad job of looking like he hasn’t been waiting for Atsumu.

“You,” Atsumu snarls, shoving a finger in his face. “What was _that_?”

Omi considers the finger for a second before meeting Atsumu’s eyes. “What was what?” he asks.

Anyone else would think he’s being sincere, but Atsumu knows bullshit when he smells it, and the whole locker room fuckin’ _reeks_.

“Uh-uh,” he snaps, “don’t tell me that last serve wasn’t intentional. We both know what happened out there.”

For a moment, they just look at each other. Atsumu, furious; Omi, unenthused. Then Omi bats Atsumu’s finger away with the back of his hand.

“We need to go,” he says. “Before the next team needs the showers.”

Atsumu scowls and briefly considers biting him just to make a point. Maybe taking him by the shoulders and shaking. Whatever it’d take to break that cool, calm, unbothered attitude Omi’s so comfortable in. Instead he sighs, moves back towards his duffle bag, and starts yanking out his clothes.

“Don’t think we’re finished just cuz we’re leavin’,” he warns.

It takes about twenty minutes for them to wrap up and regroup with the rest of the team. If they were missed, no one says anything about it. They’re all too busy bickering over noodles and complaining about how crowded the cafeteria is and altogether acting like nothing monumental—like their beloved wing spiker flubbing a serve in a goddamn _Olympic game_ —has happened.

On one hand, the rest of the team’s ignorance makes Atsumu wanna tear his hair out, scream, and demand justice. On the other hand, that might involve sharing the details of their bet with their teammates, and frankly he’d rather eat his sweat-logged sneakers. So he keeps his mouth zipped.

For the better part of the next hour, he picks at his food and stews in silence. And the more Atsumu stews, the smugger Omi seems to look. He knows that Atsumu _knows_ , and the bastard’s _enjoyin’_ it. It’s nearly enough to give a guy indigestion, so Atsumu taps out of his meal before he’s even halfway through it and clambers to his feet. If he wants to avoid makin’ a scene, they’ve gotta get goin’.

“C’mon,” he says to Omi, who looks tempted to argue. Like he didn’t finish his food fifteen minutes ago _and_ already go through the entire ritual of wiping his fingers and mouth down right after. “We’re not done talkin’, remember?”

That catches Bokkun and Shouyou’s attention. Their shoulders straighten, and they lift their heads high and open their eyes wide in twin looks of flagrant curiosity, like they’re trying to absorb every detail of this scene in one glance.

It’s a calculated risk. Atsumu doesn’t exactly _want_ to clue them in on their bet, sure, but Omi? Omi would sooner put himself in a coma than breathe a word of it to them.

It’s funny, watchin’ the pros-and-cons decision-making play out across Omi’s face in real time. His eyebrows are Olympians in their own right, and he somehow manages to fit more personality in a single, tiny frown than Hyakuzawa’s got in his whole enormous body.

“Comin’?” Atsumu asks, voice saccharine.

At last Omi sighs and gets up, expression thunderous. It’s a small victory, but Atsumu revels in it all the same. Every inch of power he reclaims in this situation is a triumph.

When they finally reach their room, Omi hovers by the door while Atsumu fights the number pad by the handle. When the lock finally deactivates and Atsumu shoulders the door open, they both linger for a second. Atsumu, eyeing Omi. Omi, eyeing him right back.

Then, like the rising of the bastard sun itself, the corner of Omi’s mouth lifts into a telltale smirk, and he steps past Atsumu and into the room.

Omi takes a moment to kick off his shoes, but it’s a rookie mistake cuz before he’s even dropped his bag, Atsumu’s got the door shut and locked, and he’s crowding Omi up against the nearest wall. But maybe Omi was expectin’ it all along, cuz he hits the wall with an _oof,_ then goes lax. His slouch puts them at eye level, making it impossible for Atsumu to avoid the question—the challenge—in his gaze.

“Yer a real bastard, y’know that?” he snarls, hands fisted in Omi’s windbreaker. He shakes him a little for emphasis, and Omi’s head lolls against the wall as he exhales a sharp, brief laugh through his nose. His lips part in a smirk that’s all teeth, all smugness. The sight of it makes Atsumu hiss. “ _Bastard_ ,” he repeats.

“I thought you’d be glad,” Omi croons, in that tone that’s all Atsumu’s, the one that was forged with the sole, specific intent of making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “You won our bet.”

“Cuz yer a fuckin’ _cheater_!”

“So you think I lost on purpose,” Omi intones.

“No,” Atsumu says, yanking Omi off the wall, grabbing his face with both hands, and crushing him up against it again. “I _know_ you lost on purpose,” he growls into Omi’s plush, parted lips, like he can somehow bury the words in the slant of that stupid smirk.

Atsumu kisses like he argues (like he does everything, really): with intent to win. Words exchanged for hard pressure and nips of his teeth against the pout of Omi’s bottom lip. He’s got points to make, and he’d rather die than let them go unmade. But that’s easier said than done when Omi’s practically _meltin_ ’ into the wall behind him, sighin’ and groanin’ at everything Atsumu tries, hands comin’ up to press his fingers to Atsumu’s wrists and just _hold_.

“Dammit,” Atsumu groans, feeling his resolve crumbling and his kisses softening already. Omi’s mouth is a goddamn drug. “I’m not lettin’ you off the hook.”

Omi makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. For a moment, they’re quiet enough that all Atsumu hears is the labored breaths shared between them. He licks his lip and, when Omi wraps a hand around the back of his neck and tugs him in again, sways forward into another kiss without complaint.

Undressing Omi used to be an hour-long event, neither of them comfortable enough to just _go for it_. Back then, Atsumu felt faint just at the _idea_ of seeing Omi’s nipples. Now, they have to force themselves to be mindful. Careful. Deliberate, as they peel each other out of their layers, because if they’re anything less they’ll ruin their clothes with their eagerness.

“Ow,” Atsumu groans when Omi almost elbows him in the mouth.

“That didn’t even hit you,” Omi says as he whips his shirt over his head and grabs at Atsumu’s without pausing to take a breath. “Would it kill you to be less dramatic?”

“Are you willin’ to risk it?”

_Now_ Omi pauses, the concentrated crease of his forehead smoothing out as he considers the question like it’s legitimate and non-rhetorical.

“ _Bastard_ ,” Atsumu snaps, but he lifts his arms obediently just the same.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” Omi scolds even as he pulling Atsumu’s shirt off him. A second later, he’s hooked his fingers into the elastic waist of Atsumu’s sweats and has started to tug. “The others—?” Meaning Tobio and Shouyou—who have one of the rooms next door—and Wakatoshi and Motoya—who have the other.

“Celebratin’,” Atsumu says. “Probably not for long though.”

Omi grunts in acknowledgement and pushes Atsumu’s sweats down far enough for him to shimmy the rest of the way out of them—which Atsumu does immediately—then goes back to his own clothes again. Neither of them addresses the elephant in the room, the one squeezed into the impossibly tight space between them.

Omi threw their bet, which means Atsumu won. Which means what’s about to happen isn’t going to take very long at all. The scoreboard in Atsumu’s head has been replaced with a countdown; at this rate, he gives it less than twenty minutes before he’s pushing into Omi, gritting his teeth, and summoning up every scrap of good karma he’s got in the universe to keep himself from coming in two minutes flat.

It won’t mean much. He ran out of good karma about fifteen years ago.

So he’s gonna fuck Omi into the mattress and nut in about thirty seconds flat, and that? That’s on Omi this time. He chose this for them, knowing damn well what the outcome was gonna be.

The bastard.

Somehow, someway, they manage to stumble their way over to the bed on the far side of the room, which is overstuffed with pillows. Ordinarily, Omi’d already have stripped it down and replaced it with the set of sheets they brought from home, but if he’s thinkin’ about germs at all right now he doesn’t show it. Instead he unzips and discards his windbreaker with aggressive, efficient snaps of his wrists and casts a hard, challenging look Atsumu’s way.

And far be it for Atsumu to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Instead he yanks the drawer of the bedside table open hard enough that the lamp sitting on top of the wood wobbles ominously. Inside are a dozen loose condoms, each wrapped in neon foils stamped with the Nike checkmark. Courtesy of the Olympic Village. The half-full bottle of water-based lube tucked against the wall of the drawer, though? That they brought from home. Atsumu plucks it and a condom—one with magenta foil—out and knocks the drawer shut with his hip.

Four feet away, Omi’s wrestling himself out of his t-shirt and sweats, and each layer stripped away reveals more and more skin. The sight stops Atsumu mid-huff because. Well. It’s just a lot. From the pronounced slope of Omi’s bare shoulders to the long line of his legs to the monstrous, knobby little demons he calls his toes.

Undressed, he looks just as _over it_ as he does when he’s covered from ankle to elbow. Yet there’s something soft about this Omi, something more than the sum of his parts: the slightly frazzled hair, the contemplative pinch of his mouth, the cup of his palms against his elbows as he unfolds and folds his arms in front of him over and over again, the protective and practiced way he curls in on himself ever so slightly when he takes a seat.

Atsumu drops the condom and lube on the bed near Omi’s hip. The pinch of Omi’s mouth gets even tighter, his lips even smaller. It’s a look so transparently calculating that Atsumu feels like he can see the wheels in his head turnin’, a decision bein’ made in real time. Finally, with the sort of decisiveness Atsumu’s only ever felt on the court, Omi plucks the condom up and tosses it back on the table.

“Wait, _what_ ,” Atsumu splutters. Startled doesn’t begin to cover it. “Do you seriously wanna—”

Omi cuts him off with a sharp sound, something that could probably blossom into an argument if given enough time and space to take root. “Are you complaining?” he snaps.

Atsumu’d have to be some special sorta dumbass to pick this fight right here and now, but truth be told it’s kinda tempting. Gift horse be damned. On some instinctual level, he feels like he ought to point out the fact that they’re in a strange room, on some Olympic-committee-provided sheets, without even a towel laid down to make up for the mess Omi’s telling Atsumu to make of him right now.

“What’s gotcha so bossy today?” he demands instead, shoving at Omi’s shoulder and climbing on top of him as soon as Omi’s lying back.

He’s as pretty as a picture—a picture of a particularly pissy subject, sure, but the point stands. There’s something about the contrast of those night-black curls spilling across the crisp white pillowcase that elicits something soft and wondrous in Atsumu. It’s not too different from the first time he saw one of his sets get nailed by Omi’s trademark spin, actually. It’s nearly enough to make him forget what a flagrant, no good, game-throwin’ _cheater_ Omi is. Nearly.

Without another thought, he straddles Omi’s hips and pops the lube open with a practiced flick of his thumb.

“We didn’t set any rules for cheatin’,” he thinks aloud while giving the bottle a small squeeze.

A drop of lube oozes out onto his finger, then stops. He frowns. Tries again. Nothin’.

“Why would I cheat?” Omi asks, looking up at Atsumu with heavy-lidded eyes. Bedroom eyes. What-the-hell-are-you-doing-with-the-lube-you-idiot eyes.

His pride officially at stake, Atsumu gives the bottle a tight, sharp squeeze. What happens next is like watching a trainwreck. Or a car crash. Or his boyfriend throw a match point service ace in front of the entire world.

The cap of the bottle pops right off, and half of the lube inside goops into Atsumu’s hand in one fat _plop_.

Silence. Judgmental silence.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he hisses.

“I wasn’t—”

Atsumu puts two non-slicked fingers to Omi’s lips, meets those fuck-me eyes, and says, “If you ever want a toss from me again, you won’t say anything right now.”

Omi looks unthreatened. He says, “You’re dripping all over the sheets.”

Atsumu groans, resists the innate urge to tear his hands through his own hair, and jumps off the bed in one bound. “Would it _kill you_ to be less of an asshole sometimes,” he complains while storming off to the bathroom then slamming the door for good measure.

As soon as he’s out of sight and has the sink running, he hears it through the wall: the airy, barely-there sound of Omi’s laugh.

Damn if it doesn’t make the humiliation just a little bit worth it.

*

“Are you ready?” Atsumu asks, kneeling between Omi’s spread thighs with the recapped bottle of lube in hand.

A few other things changed in the last ten minutes. There’s a couple of towels laid out on the bed under Omi now. Atsumu’s hands reek overwhelmingly of the designer, Olympic-Village-provided hand cream he found stashed in a care basket under the sink, and neither of them are even slightly hard anymore. That’s fine. It never takes them long.

“I was ready half an hour ago,” Omi says, voice flat. “Then _someone_ —”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Atsumu sighs as he confidently squirts lube out onto three fingers with a single, moderate squeeze. With a chest full of pride, he looks at Omi and waits.

Omi meets his eyes. Silence. Confused silence.

Atsumu clears his throat. Looks at his fingers. Looks back at Omi.

Omi’s brow furrows. He looks at Atsumu’s fingers. Looks back at Atsumu.

“ _Seriously_?” he asks, face contorting in disgust. “You want me to congratulate you for that?”

A blush burns its way up to the tips of Atsumu’s ears. “Well, it wouldn’t _hurt_ ,” he admits.

“Congratulations,” Omi says with exactly zero enthusiasm, “now put them in me.”

Atsumu sighs. “The shit I let you get away with,” he says while bracing a hand on one of Omi’s thick thighs. He pauses like this to consider the angle. “Can you—?”

With a grunt, Omi folds himself in half and cups his thighs, holding them open. “Happy?” he asks, like he couldn’t care less if the tight furl of his asshole makes Atsumu’s day or not.

“Sure am,” Atsumu says, lying through his teeth like a champ.

The thing is—

_The_ _thing is_ that no matter how many times they do this, he just can’t seem to keep his cool. He puts up a good show through all the steps it takes to get here (the bitching, the kissing, the undressing, the bitching some more for good measure), but in the end sex with Omi is like watching him on the court: there’s just no getting used to it. Each time is as devastating as the last.

Atsumu presses a hand to the meat of Omi’s inner thigh and takes a breath. The world has been reduced to this room, this bed, and the air feels dense and heavy with arousal, with anticipation. Omi’s a study of contrasts: too-pale skin and too-dark eyes, stripped bare and somehow weaponized by it. Atsumu wants to put his teeth to every inch of him, but there’s a good chance that he’s going to combust if he moves even an inch closer right now.

Omi shifts his hips restlessly, thoughtlessly. He knows better than to rush this part, if he wants there to be any hope of this lasting long enough to be good. Unlike Atsumu—who feels every time like it’s somehow the first time—he’s managed to retain a few things over the last year.

“Hold on,” Atsumu says, and he leans sideways to snatch a pillow that got discarded along the way. He shoves it under Omi’s hips and refuses to meet his eyes, the gesture too gentle for either of them to acknowledge it.

For a minute, they’re just naked and quiet. The hum of their room’s AC drowns out their breathing and all but washes away the thudding of Atsumu’s heart. Drenched in the glow of the bedside lamp, Omi could be cast in gold. He’s all too-long limbs and too-sharp angles, and if Atsumu doesn’t take this brief respite to steel himself, he’s going to come just looking at the defined V of his abdomen.

When he’s as close as he thinks he’ll ever be to ready, he finally says, “Okay.”

Then he presses his fingers to Omi’s rim, gently. Or as gently as he’s capable, at least. Omi sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth, and his head thrashes against the pillow like he’s been shocked.

“Cold?” Atsumu asks.

Omi shakes his head. So he’s just really keyed up, then. That’s going to make this even harder than Atsumu thought. He curses under his breath and moves his finger in a tight, concentrated circle around Omi’s hole then curses some more—louder—when Omi _whines_ for it. With dawning horror, he watches as Omi’s thighs begin to shake.

Just like that, the countdown in Atsumu’s head neatly halves itself, and he shoves a finger into Omi as rudely as he can.

“Fuck _you_ ,” Omi snaps, his teeth clacking together with the force of it. He’s writhing a little too, like he’s not sure if he feels good or not, like he’s not sure if he wants to move with Atsumu or against him yet.

Inside, he’s the softest fucking thing Atsumu’s ever felt.

“ _Omi_ ,” Atsumu groans, all the wind knocked out of him in those two syllables. “Yer _killin’_ me. How is this fair?”

It’s not fair, not even a little bit. Omi’s supposed to be hard and cold as ice and sharp enough to cut. How many years did Atsumu believe as much? How long did he go without _knowing_ that just below the surface was this: Omi shuddering through sensation, flushing from sternum to hairline as he squirms on Atsumu’s finger like he’s being run through. Like he’s never felt anything better. Pleasure-pain made flesh and plush and fuckable.

“Tsumu,” he grunts, spreading his thighs wider. It’s a mindless, instinctual shift of his body that he’s likely got zero control of, but whether he means what it says or not, Atsumu hears it just the same: _Please_.

“Fuck,” he harshes out, twisting his wrist in answer. “Fucking _shit._ Goddamn. You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Omi tosses his head against the pillow again, curls bouncing, falling into his face but failing to hide the fluttering of his lashes as he moves deliberately now, rolling his hips down and sucking in deep, deliberate breaths like he’s trying to claw back control of the situation. He can have it, Atsumu thinks wildly. Let him have all the control he wants, so long as he doesn’t tell Atsumu to take his finger out.

“Another,” Omi demands, like Atsumu couldn’t already tell by the slick-sweet give of his rim that he’s more than ready.

Two fingers makes for such a tight squeeze that _Atsumu_ struggles to breathe through it; how Omi manages is a goddamn mystery. Just having two fingers a couple knuckles deep in the velvet warmth of him is nearly enough to make Atsumu bust; the idea that he’s somehow supposed to survive moving like this feels like an impossible, cruel joke.

“How,” he rasps, twisting his hand and pushing _in_ then shuddering at the feeling of Omi’s body resisting, resisting, until it finally gives and makes room for Atsumu _inside_. “How are you always like this?”

He risks a glance at Omi’s face, braced for devastation at the hands of whatever he looks like right now, but even when he thinks he’s ready for it, he’s not.

Omi’s upper body is twisted so he’s mostly on one shoulder, curls obscuring most of his face except his slack jaw and parted mouth, which is forming and reforming around words he can’t quite make. All that’s escaping him are these punched out, needy sounds that Atsumu wasn’t aware of two seconds ago but now feels haunted by. Like, assuming he makes it through this night without dying, those sounds are gonna follow him to the end of the fuckin’ world.

“Feel that good, huh?” he asks, setting a rhythm with his wrist now because how can he not? Leave it to Omi to ruin a perfectly perfunctory fingering. “Gonna get loud for me, baby?”

Omi’s chest heaves with the force of his breaths, and he cocks his head to squint up at Atsumu with pitch-dark eyes. He’s not crying yet at least, but he looks like he’d be bitching if he weren’t feeling too good to make words, so he’s resigned to let his face—mostly his eyebrows—do the talking.

And his face says, _Shut the fuck up_. Or maybe, _Give me another_. Possibly both. Either way, Atsumu doesn’t argue.

Instead he slides both of his fingers out and fumbles in the blankets for the lube again, pawing at every crease and lump he can see while Omi takes the liberty of rolling over onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow, and arching his back like some sorta living, breathing wet dream.

“That’s not gonna work,” Atsumu complains as he finds the lube. “Omi, shit. I’m not kidding. If you don’t roll over I’m gonna come just lookin’ atcha.”

Omi slides his forearms under the pillow his face is mashed into, turns his head to the side, and growls, “ _Tsumu_.” Which doesn’t exactly leave room for negotiations.

Bossy sunovabitch.

Atsumu glares and brings his dry hand down in a sharp strike against Omi’s ass. Omi kicks backwards in retaliation like a pissed off horse, and it’s only thanks to months of conditioning that Atsumu manages to dive out of the way of his vicious, monstrous foot.

“Hey!” he snaps, recapping the lube and tossing it aside again, “Do you _wanna_ get fucked? Cuz kickin’ me’s a good way to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“I _want_ ,” Omi grits out, “to lie like this. Figure the rest out yourself.”

Atsumu could scream.

“ _Figure the rest out yourself_ ,” he mimics meanly even as he’s knee-walking himself back into position between Omi’s spread legs. From here he’s got a full view of the bony contours of Omi’s ass and the patch of red that’s blossoming where his hand connected just a moment ago. It’s the sorta sight that makes it hard to hold a grudge, that’s for sure. “Yer lucky yer pretty,” he sighs.

He uses a hand to spread Omi apart again, dry fingers pressing into the seam of his ass. For a minute, he just appreciates the view: the intimate, dark flush of skin, his small and slick-soft rim, the promise of wet-warm softness within.

Once again Atsumu’s reminded that the people in his life ought to respect him more. Every day he lives with the intimate awareness of how good it feels to be buried balls-deep in Sakusa Kiyoomi, and somehow he still manages to live a fairly normal life. Brush his teeth. Shop for groceries. Go to practice. Win games. The fact that he doesn’t spend every waking moment of his life stuffing Omi to the brim is really a testament to his willpower. That the rest of the world doesn’t recognize and reward that is, frankly, criminal.

Omi’s gone quiet and turned his face back into the pillow now. The muscles in his arms and shoulders are coiled tight, like he’s gripping the sheets under the pillow for all they’re worth, and Atsumu has the sudden, powerful urge to curl over his broad back and sink his teeth into one of those bulging, beautiful muscles just because he _can_.

Instead, he takes a breath, closes his eyes to ask the universe for the strength he needs not to detonate on contact, and presses his fingers—three, this time, thick and slicked and all for Omi—back inside.

Omi makes a fluttery, wounded sound. Like he’s dying. Like it feels so good he won’t survive it. A full-body shudder wracks him, enough for Atsumu to know that his aim was true and that this position really is the worst possible one they could be in for making this last. He pets Omi’s flank with his free hand and shushes him, holding perfectly still otherwise while they both struggle to get their bearings.

Eventually, Omi settles. He rocks his hips slowly, experimentally, like he hasn’t taken Atsumu’s fingers dozens of times before. Like he wasn’t put on this planet for the sole purpose of taking them. Like he hasn’t done this every chance he’s gotten for the better part of a year. Omi on the court is devastating, sure, but he’s got nothin’ on _this_ Omi—the one no one but Atsumu’s ever gonna get to see, if Atsumu’s got anything to say about it.

“Hey, so,” he pants now, twisting his fingers slowly, carefully, and gritting his teeth at the sounds he can hear Omi burying in the pillow, “Just an idea: you wanna come like this?”

He’s pretty sure he can make that happen, and it feels polite to offer. Especially since he’s increasingly unsure he’s gonna be capable of doin’ much else than this, judgin’ by how hot his dick feels and how tightly drawn his balls are already.

Omi turns his head again, and the blush-burned apples of his cheeks are nearly the same shade as their uniforms, yet somehow a billion times more flattering on him. Atsumu can’t help but admire it as Omi struggles to make words, his chest constricting with fondness when all Omi manages is a weak, _Nuh-uh_ and a half-shake of his head.

Well, so much for _that_ plan.

Before this all goes up in flames, Atsumu slides his fingers out, and the sound Omi makes—like a bitchy, fussy sigh—nearly makes his eyes cross.

“Don’t give me that,” he snaps. “You’re the one bein’ all demandin’.”

Omi _hmph_ s and wraps his spindly arms around the pillow in a vice grip as if to say, _Fuck you, I’m still not moving._ If nothing else, Atsumu can appreciate the sheer determination of it. He still shoves Omi’s hips until he topples over onto his side in a pile of curls and cussing and shivery-loose limbs, but he respects the stubbornness nevertheless.

“Yer the cheater here,” he reminds him, “so yer gonna ride.”

Omi opens his mouth to protest, probably, but Atsumu smacks his flank and flings himself down on his back to make it clear: this time, _he’s_ the one who’s not gonna budge. For a beat, the room’s quiet again. Omi’s irritation hangs in the air, a distinct, palpable thing between them, but if there’s one thing Atsumu’s mastered in his life other than setting, it’s flat-out ignoring people who are annoyed with him.

Eventually, Omi pushes himself up, and he throws a single long, pale leg over Atsumu’s thighs to take a seat in his lap like a king on his throne.

“You’re a brat,” he accuses, tone flat and eyebrows pinched deeply. “I should have roomed with Bokuto.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu agrees, too smug with getting his way to take it personally. “But Bokkun probably wouldn’t fuck you, so here we are.”

Omi rolls his eyes. “Romantic,” he drones.

“Happy anniversary,” Atsumu says sweetly, though he sure as fuck doesn’t know when their actual anniversary is. So why _not_ today, really?

“ _Ugh_ ,” Omi groans, like he really and truly has no fucking idea how he ended up in this position. Then he reaches back and wraps a hand around Atsumu’s dick. “Are you done?”

Based on past experience, Atsumu’s pretty sure he’ll be more than done in about ninety seconds. But the ability to speak left him somewhere between Omi’s last bitchy eye roll and the cool touch of his long, knobby fingers.

“Good,” Omi says, squeezing to make a point. And to make Atsumu squeak, which he unfortunately does.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he chokes out.

“ _Someone_ has to put it in.”

His tone feels very pointed, and it’s not very appreciated. If he wanted Atsumu to be fully coherent at this point, maybe he should try being less hot for a day or two. Or give his freakishly strong grip a rest. There’s a fuckin’ idea.

Atsumu opens his mouth to say as much, but all that comes out is, “ _Please_.”

Omi curves his palm over the head of Atsumu’s dick, and _fuck_. It’s so _wet_. Is that his hand? Lube? Or is that all Atsumu’s? Fuck, fuck, shit. Pride forgotten, Atsumu whines and fucks his hips up into the firm touch, then jerks back a second later.

“Your circulation is shit,” he accuses. “It feels like I’m gettin’ a handjob from a corpse.”

“You should feel my toes,” Omi bites back, and Atsumu’s blood goes cold in his veins.

“ _Gross_ ,” he complains, with feeling.

Omi makes a soft, thin sound that might be a laugh, might be quiet agreement. Then he lifts his hips, tips them back, and starts to sit on Atsumu’s dick with the sort of precision that gives away just how many times they’ve done this. His aim is true and deadly. He adjusts his weight, spread his thighs, and tilts his body back until the fat, spongey head of Atsumu’s dick slips inside.

“ _Fuck_ ,” they both say—Atsumu in a single hissed breath that escapes through his teeth, Omi in a gasped inhale, more of a breath than an actual word.

Inside, Omi’s… slick. Slick and sticky and sweet, clinging to Atsumu’s dick and sinking down, down, down with single-minded determination. It’s the sort of tight that shouldn’t be possible, like Atsumu can feel every deep, steadying breath Omi takes. Like he can _feel_ the pinch of his brows or the way Omi’s hands curl and tighten into the sheets as he takes more, more, more fraction by fraction. The sort of tight that, clearly, makes Atsumu incapable of making sense.

“ _Omi_ ,” he moans, hands reaching up and cupping Omi’s elbows, sliding up to his biceps. Holding on for dear fuckin’ life. “Fuck. _Fuck_. It’s so good. You’re working so hard for me, baby.”

“This isn’t hard,” Omi lies, because apparently Atsumu’s dating a cheat _and_ a liar now. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that big.”

Atsumu snaps his hips up in retaliation, shoving all the way in to the hilt in one mean push, and Omi throws his head back and moans with a low, broken voice.

“Big enough to make you sound like _that_ ,” Atsumu gloats, like he’s not already at the edge of coming. Like he’s completely unaffected by how fucking _good_ it feels to be buried balls deep in Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Omi keeps his head tilted back and rolls his hips slowly, deliberately. He’s a work of art all the time, but it’s especially evident when he’s like this. The definition of his body and the pleasure etched into his face makes him look like the classics, like he’s carved from marble. Sweat’s formed along his hairline, at the base of his throat, in the dip between his pecs. He reeks of sex, musty and a little sour, and when he moves again with more confidence, he _sounds_ like sex. Wet. Squelching.

“ _Omi_ ,” Atsumu warns, hands dropping to grip him by the hips and make him _stop_. His palms slide on the sweat collected there, everything wet, wet, wet. “Hold—hold on. I’m gonna bust if you keep it up.”

“Don’t,” Omi bites out, eyes shut now, head lolling forward, curls falling in his face. “Don’t you _dare_.”

He fights Atsumu’s grip to move again, and he moans like a goddamn pornstar while doing it. The sound goes right to Atsumu’s dick. Makes him twitch inside Omi, where everything is so fucking soft and so, so warm. Where his body’s rearranged itself to fit Atsumu in nice and deep, where he _belongs_.

Nope, Atsumu isn’t gonna last. Not a fuckin’ chance.

“I’m gonna—” he whines as he tightens his grip on Omi’s hips, fingers digging hard into the damp skin, and he fucks up like he can force himself deeper. Touch a place inside Omi that no one else ever has or ever will again. “ _Shit_. Gonna come, gonna come in you.”

“ _No_ ,” Omi bites out, hands coming down in claws on Atsumu’s pecs and _dragging_ , no doubt raising angry red lines in their wake. “Wait—wait, just a little more—”

He spreads his thighs and rolls his hips again, again, again. Between his legs, his impossibly fat dick is flushed and furious. Atsumu wants to touch it, squeeze it, work it over until Omi comes apart at the seams. But Omi threw their bet, so Atsumu holds him by the hips instead and gives a few jerky, uncoordinated thrusts up.

His heart’s a sledgehammer in his chest. He hears the distant roar of his blood rushing in his ears. Around his dick, Omi’s the sweetest fucking thing. Needy, aching, begging more than demanding. He’s soft and creamy and all Atsumu’s, all Atsumu’s, all Atsumu’s.

“ _Can’t_ ,” Atsumu chokes out. “Fuck, I’m coming, I’m _coming—_ ”

Omi digs his nails in harder and makes a sound like he’s crying, but Atsumu can’t look because he’s screwing his eyes shut tight, tight, tight and fucking in as deep as he can get while he comes in a rush, emptying everything he’s got into Omi until he’s shivery and twitching in the aftermath, feet cramping from how hard his toes have curled.

The comedown is slow. Awareness comes back by the handful: his breathing loud and labored, his vision bleary and wet, his thighs twitching and knees knocking. Just as the rush of blood to his head starts to recede, Omi sighs and slumps a little in Atsumu’s lap.

“How has your stamina gotten _worse_?” he asks, arms crossed across his chest like he’s trying to tuck his nipples away from view.

Atsumu feels too good to fight. He rolls his hips again, a dark thrill running up his spine at the wet, sticky sounds of fucking through his own come. Some of it spills out, forced out by Atsumu’s dick as he keeps moving, until it’s dripping down his shaft and balls. Omi tries to act annoyed by it, but his body’s too honest: he rocks his hips subconsciously to meet Atsumu’s on every thrust up, and the look on his face is damn near beatific as he does. Pretty and fussy and contradictory—that’s Omi in a nutshell.

When he gets too sensitive to keep going, Atsumu melts into the mattress, arms thrown out like wings, hair sweaty and limp across his brow. Everything feels good and fuzzy and warm. It seems impossible that he was ever mad about winning their bet in the first place. Who could hold a grudge after bustin' a nut in Sakusa Kiyoomi?

Omi shifts and slides off his dick, and Atsumu manages enough strength to lift his head and watch. There’s a little come smeared between Omi’s asscheeks and thighs already, which is satisfying as hell to see on some innate, primal level. Atsumu half expects him to reach for the tissues on the bedside table right away, but instead Omi collapses against Atsumu’s chest, head tucked under his chin and face pressed against his throat.

Ah. Right. They played a full game just a couple hours ago. Now this. It makes Atsumu’s chest feel a little tight thinking about it. He drags a hand up from the small of Omi’s back and pets along the line of his spine, tracing the dips and knobs with a practiced and familiar touch and earning a soft sound like, _Ngh_ , from Omi in return.

“Yer still hard,” Atsumu points out, shifting his hip where he can feel the hot, solid line of Omi’s dick pressing against his sweat-slick skin.

“I need a minute,” Omi groans. “Are you going to suck it?”

Atsumu makes a face. “Romantic,” he accuses even as he’s blushing up to his ears. “Is that how you wanna spend our anniversary? Breakin’ my jaw?”

“Our anniversary was a month ago.”

Oh. Oops. “This is how you wanna spend our _thirteen-month_ anniversary?” he amends. “Breakin’ my jaw?”

Omi laughs again, that same whispery-soft, raspy sound that Atsumu never gets tired of, and he turns his face to press his ear to Atsumu’s shoulder. “You could just say no, if you don’t want to.”

“I can want something and be terrified of it at the same time,” Atsumu points out. “I’m not too proud to say that.”

Normally, he would be. But normally he’s not talking about the possibility of having Sakusa Kiyoomi’s terrifyingly large dick in his _mouth_. He’s actually not sure how he could fit it in there next to all his teeth. On the other hand, he’s always been told he’s got a big mouth. Maybe they’d be a perfect fit that way, too.

“You could fuck me, instead,” he suggests, nerves winning out a little.

What is it about having that monster in his _ass_ that feels so much less intimidating than his mouth? There’s gotta be something scientific behind that, but Atsumu isn’t exactly the type to Google his personality defects.

Omi makes a disbelieving sound. “You’ll tap out before I even get two fingers in you,” he says tonelessly.

Atsumu feels his sudden, embarrassed blush in the tips of his ears. “Well—I mean,” he starts, stops. Tries to summon the confidence to say something biting.

With a sigh, Omi pushes himself upright and he glances down at Atsumu, looking cool and calculating despite the tangled mess of his curls and the flush still staining his cheeks and throat and sternum.

“We can do it if you want to,” he says coolly, like his dick isn’t hot and heavy and probably _aching_ by now. “Don’t do it for my sake, though.”

Atsumu squints at him. He feels caught between disbelief and being genuinely offended by the accusation.

“Omi,” he says with as much gravitas as he can muster having nutted his brains out just a couple minutes ago, “when have I ever, _ever_ done anything for _anyone’s_ sake but my own?”

Omi studies him. Atsumu studies him back. It feels really, really important that they both agree that, if nothing else, Atsumu is as selfish as the day is long, and it’d be a cold day in hell before he’d go asking for dickings he doesn’t want.

Slowly but surely, the corner of Omi’s mouth twitches up into that rare, pleased smirk of his—the one that makes Atsumu feel possessed with the _need_ to kiss it.

“Alright,” Omi says. “Pass me a condom, and we’ll do it.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes even as he’s reaching for the drawer of the bedside table. “Oh, so when _I_ try to use a condom you get all huffy, but when it’s time for _you_ to put something in—”

“ _Please_ shut up,” Omi groans, crawling between Atsumu’s spread legs and snatching the condom out of his hands.

Atsumu can’t help it. He cackles, bright and delighted, still feeling warm and lax in the wake of his orgasm, his mood too good to contain in his chest any longer. “Lube’s in the sheets, somewhere,” he says, waving a hand lazily. “Knock yerself out.”

He watches the ceiling, drenched in hazy happiness and drying sweat, and listens to the whispery sounds of Omi rooting around in the sheets.

“Hm,” Omi says.

Atsumu doesn’t bother to lift his head to ask, “What?”

“You wasted a lot of this.”

Like he needed to be reminded of _that_ , yeesh. Atsumu kicks a foot out lazily and digs his toes into the flesh of Omi’s stomach in retaliation—to which he makes a quiet _ugh_ sound, wraps a hand around Atsumu’s ankle, and drags it away.

He doesn’t let go when he says, “I don’t know if what’s left will be enough.”

Now Atsumu lifts his head, brow furrowed. Omi’s holding the semi-clear bottle up to the light, the remaining lube’s meniscus just barely visible from where Atsumu’s sitting.

He swallows. “It’ll be fine.”

Omi stops squinting at the bottle to squint at him instead. His eyebrows fold in on themselves as if to say, _You’re a shitty liar, Atsumu_.

“Seriously!” Atsumu insists. “Just—y’know. Go slow. And stuff.”

“Go slow and stuff,” Omi echoes, looking entirely unsold on the idea. “This is stupid. We don’t have to do—”

“ _Yer_ stupid,” Atsumu says, jerking the foot still in Omi’s hold to knock it against his ribs. “‘S’not like it’s my first time. C’mon.”

Omi glances between him and the lube a few times, then looks down at his dick. Atsumu looks with him. It’s hard to stare at like this without feeling kind of pervy but, objectively? It’s nice. Good… shape. Or whatever. At some point Omi went ahead and slipped on a condom, so it’s also a little funny-looking right now, but Atsumu has the strange, sudden urge to talk to it.

“ _Okay_ ,” he says sharply, cutting _that_ idea off before it can grow legs, “either stick something in me or don’t, but do it _now_.” He’s blushing again, and the more aware of it he is, the stronger it gets.

For a moment, he thinks Omi might really back out. He frowns at the lube for the length of a heartbeat or two. Then, finally, he clicks the bottle open with his thumb.

“You asked for this,” he warns as he effortlessly squeezes a dollop of lube out on his fingers. “If you cry, we’re stopping.”

“But I _always_ cry,” Atsumu complains, then stops. Panics a little. “Wait—hold on. I take that back.”

It’s too late. Omi’s mouth has twisted into an infuriating, smug grin. The sort that’s gonna haunt Atsumu for weeks to come.

“ _Dammit_ ,” he hisses. “You _tricked me_? What happened to my straight-laced, by-the-book boyfriend? I want _that_ guy back.”

Instead of arguing, Omi presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek and slides two slick, cool fingers against the rim of Atsumu’s asshole.

“Fuck!” Atsumu yelps, squirming and kicking again. “Would you _let go of my foot already_?”

“I like it here,” Omi says coolly as he hooks his fingers inside. “You’re easier to handle like this.”

His fingers feel impossibly thick already, just the first knuckles of the two of them, hooked right inside with one simple purpose: to coax Atsumu open little by little. It’s such a singularly _weird_ sensation that there’s no ignoring it, no focusing on anything else. With every shuddery breath Atsumu drags in, his hole seems to twitch, and the pressure of those fingers feels renewed all over again. There’s no escaping it.

That doesn’t stop him from squirming, though. Torn between the instinct to move _away_ and the conditioned desire for _more_ , Atsumu’s hips twitch up and down, side to side. He contorts his upper body until he’s nearly on his side, his lower body only held in place by Omi’s grip on his ankle, which is too loose to last for long.

Omi’s eyes are dark and assessing. Atsumu wants to flinch away from _them_ too—anything to escape how _exposed_ he feels as Omi switches his gaze back and forth from where his fingers are stretching Atsumu open and the rest of Atsumu’s body while he writhes between discomfort and eagerness.

“Don’t look,” Atsumu tries to snap, but it comes out too breathy to be biting.

The deadliest thing about Omi in bed—after his enormous dick and his unimaginably tight ass—is the look he gets when he’s figuring out exactly what he wants to do with Atsumu next. He’s wearing it now, and Atsumu shivers under the weight of it.

“ _Omi_ ,” he _doesn’t_ whine. “Seriously.”

That earns him a sigh. A concession. Omi shifts his grip on Atsumu’s foot and lifts his leg up high, high, high. After a moment’s consideration, he presses a feather-light kiss to the bone of Atsumu’s ankle, then he slides his hand down, down, down until it’s cupping the back of his thigh. He moves forward too, neatly folding Atsumu in half with one leg bent over Omi’s shoulder and the other spread out wide.

“Better?” he asks between a series of kisses he presses to Atsumu’s mouth.

“Uh huh,” Atsumu agrees, arching up a little to appreciate the slide of their sweaty abdomens together. Omi’s dick is a hot, heavy weight between them—obvious enough to make Atsumu briefly doubt his confidence so far.

Then Omi shoves his fingers deeper and forces a pitchy, surprised sound right out of Atsumu’s throat. His fingers are bony little demons, hellbent on reducing Atsumu to an absolute embarrassment. Atsumu resents them and craves them in equal, horrible measure.

“ _Warn a guy_ ,” he hisses as soon as he can form the words.

Omi considers this. “I’m going to push them in further,” he says flatly. “How’s that?”

“I hate y— _hey!_ What did I _just_ say?”

It’s premeditated humiliation, is the thing. Omi looks so fucking satisfied that it can’t be anything else. He’s moved his free hand to plant it in the mattress by Atsumu’s head and hold Omi’s weight. All the better to scissor his fingers inside Atsumu’s ass, opening and closing them again and again to open him up more, more, more. Every fraction of a centimeter counts here, sure, but he could look less pleased with himself every time he surprises Atsumu with some new, equally weird sensation.

And that’s really the only way to describe it: weird. Omi takes it so well, so gorgeously, that Atsumu always sorta expected he’d get used to it and start to enjoy it the same way. But it’s harder for him. Stranger. He can’t quite lose himself in the pleasure of it because he’s too focused on just how _bizarre_ it feels. More fingers is better, easier—they stopped starting him at one a while ago because he always squirmed his way off of it—but it’s still mostly just. Ugh.

It doesn’t help that he just came a few minutes ago, either. In fact, it just makes everything so much—worse? So much more? So much. It’s all just _so much_.

“Shush,” Omi says, and his voice is gentler than it’s been all day. “You’re doing well.”

Atsumu sniffles and buries his face against Omi’s cheek, trying to curb his strained, plaintive whining or at least muffle it. “‘S’weird,” he complains. “Why’s it always _so weird_?”

Omi pauses for a moment, withdraws his fingers, and pushes back in with three. This time, his aim is crueler and truer. Atsumu cusses hotly against Omi’s temple and grits his teeth through the jolt of _too much_ that runs up his spine.

“Sensitive,” he bites out. “Fuck, don’t hit that again.”

“I won’t be able to _not_ hit it if we go much further.”

Shit. Well. “Okay,” Atsumu says slowly. “Hit it gentler, then.”

To Omi’s credit, he nods like that made any fuckin’ sense. Atsumu refuses to take responsibility for half the shit that comes outta his mouth when he _doesn’t_ have his boyfriend’s fingers three knuckles deep in his ass, so he’s definitely not taking any now that they are. Instead he takes Omi by the face and tugs him into a kiss.

Omi’s mouth is small and pinched into a little pout from concentrating too much, but it softens and opens against Atsumu’s with only a little coaxing. His lips are warm, and the breaths passed between them are damp and taste like skin and sweat. He kisses like someone who’s had a lot of time to practice kissing, not like someone who’s naturally great at it. Not like Atsumu. But, lucky for them both, Atsumu’s happy to take the wheel by tangling his fingers in Omi’s curls, tilting his face a little, and kissin’ the hell outta him.

It’s a good distraction. The best. By the time Atsumu’s writhing and moaning softly into Omi’s slack, stunned mouth, he doesn’t even remember the awkward pressure of Omi’s fingers in him. All he’s able to focus on is the syrupy-good feeling he’s swimming in while Omi flexes and relaxes that hypermobile wrist of his, putting it to its second best possible use.

“‘M’ready,” Atsumu decides cuz, sure, why not?

“Already?” Omi asks, clearly unconvinced. “You normally need four.”

“I normally _want_ four,” Atsumu corrects. “Now I don’t. Put yer dick in me.”

Omi sighs with the solemnity of Atlas himself, only his great burden is the truly mythological dick he’s been blessed with and not, like, _the sky_. But he doesn’t argue, instead he slips Atsumu’s leg off his shoulder and reaches down to curl a hand around his dick. The condom shifts a little under his hold. Without really meaning to, Atsumu holds his breath.

“You’re hard,” Omi points out.

Atsumu looks and—huh. Usually it takes him longer to be able to go again. Usually he _realizes_ when he’s startin’ to feel it. Now the hard line of his dick seems to almost taunt him: _surprise_!

“Think yer gonna last long enough to take care of it?” he asks, his mouth stretched into a wide, challenging grin. “Don’t think I don’t _know_ why you threw our bet.”

Bingo.

To the untrained eye, Omi looks exactly the same as he did a minute ago—vaguely interested in Atsumu’s dick and patiently charting his course forward. But Atsumu knows better. These days, he’s fairly fuckin’ sure that he knows Omi better than anyone. He certainly knows his tells, if nothin’ else. Omi’s caught his bottom lip with his teeth, and his shoulders have gone a little more stiff than he ever comfortably, naturally holds them.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Atsumu crows. “Say it—say I’m right.”

Instead Omi sighs, leans forward, and smears the head of his dick over Atsumu’s stretched rim.

“ _Cheater!”_ Atsumu chokes out, flinching like he’s been burned. “You are so fuckin’—”

But Omi’s mouth is on his before he can get another word out. It’s standard evasive maneuvers for Omi at this point: if he doesn’t want to answer the question, he’ll feign ignorance for a while, eventually stop responding, then try to draw attention off himself either by being as mean as he can muster or by dirtier, hungrier means.

Not so many years ago, his willful refusal to answer a simple, direct question would have set Atsumu off. But he’s older now. More mature. Time’s made a new man of him—one who’s perfectly capable of sittin’ on a grudge for however long it takes to get his way. So he lets go for now, melting under Omi’s sloppy, too forceful kiss.

Then, Omi starts to press inside him.

It’s a feeling that’d be hard to describe when he’s in his right mind; now the sensations come on all at once: the pressure, the warmth, the slide of the condom where Atsumu’s insides cling to it. Before he’s fully aware of what he’s doing, his legs are wrapped around Omi’s hips, and he’s thrown an arm over his eyes, like blocking out light and color and the shapeless expanse of the ceiling will somehow make his body feel familiar again.

Omi’s close enough to press his brow to Atsumu’s collarbone. His breathing is stage-whisper loud, bordering on the surreal. Or is that Atsumu’s? Which of them is trembling? Who’s making those high-pitched, reedy sounds every time their hips shift, when Omi’s press in and Atsumu’s press down to take him centimeter by impossible centimeter deeper? Like this, pressed together as closely as they’ll ever be, with Omi carving out a space for himself _inside_ Atsumu, it all blurs together.

“Fuck,” Atsumu manages to wheeze out at the first prickle of tears in his eyes. He’s starting to feel his body stretched to its limits already, and his free hand scrabbles at Omi’s shoulder to push, to hold, to pause. “It’s—that’s gotta be it, right?” he asks.

Silence. Terrible, telling silence.

“It’s most of it,” Omi admits.

Atsumu makes a ragged, furious sound. “ _Why are you built like this_?” he demands.

But Omi—damn him—just laughs. Even _that_ sounds louder now, in this intimate space between them, where Omi’s close enough to press an apologetic kiss to the bend of Atsumu’s jaw even as he flexes his hips forward and drives himself deeper, deeper, deeper in little twitches that probably aren’t intentional. Atsumu knows too well what it’s like, getting somewhere wet and warm and so incredibly soft that you just can’t _help_ wanting to be buried to the hilt in it.

“Give me a second,” he says, then he reaches between them before Omi gets a chance to stop again.

His dick is only half hard now, and it feels a little damp in Atsumu’s palm when he grips himself and tugs once, twice, again and again. It feels good and familiar, a simpler sort of pleasure, and while Omi holds himself ramrod straight and waits, braced now by his hands on either side of Atsumu’s head, Atsumu fucks his hand like it’s the slick-sweet clutch of Omi’s ass all over again.

“Okay,” he gasps when he’s ready, though he doesn’t take his hand away, “keep goin’.”

He’s prepared for Omi to more or less shove the rest of the way in, but instead Omi grabs him by the chin, thumbs open his mouth, and licks inside. A desperate sound claws its way out of his chest as Atsumu throws an arm around his neck to keep him close, to keep him right where he needs him. Only then does Omi continue to press in slow, slow, slow while Atsumu whacks himself off between them fast, fast, faster.

“ _Omi_ ,” he demands.

“Uh-huh,” Omi agrees.

They writhe against each other, sweaty skin sticking against sweaty skin, and Atsumu swallows every punched-out, pained sound Omi makes until he’s finally—finally _—_ all the way in. Based purely on how intense it felt, it should have taken an hour; based on past experience, it probably took all of five minutes.

“Too—damn—big,” Atsumu pants.

Omi smears his lips over his cheek in response, collecting a few loose tears along the way. “You’re crying,” he points out, but contrary to his earlier warning, he doesn’t show any signs of stopping.

“Kiss me,” Atsumu counters, and Omi does.

It’s too uncoordinated to be a real kiss. This close together, Atsumu can just barely make out the dark line of lashes where Omi’s screwed his eyes shut. He can only sorta translate the crease between his brows ( _Yes, fuck, yes_ , it says, and Atsumu can’t help but agree) and the flinching, unsteady rolls of Omi’s hips ( _Close, so close. But not yet_.)

They smell like sex. They _sound_ like sex. The slick slide of Omi’s dick moving in and out of Atsumu are loud enough to be heard even over their labored breathing. It’s a filthy, revealing sound that Atsumu will be embarrassed to remember later, but he’s past the point of shame now. Now he’s chasing something—the shivery-sweet thrum of pleasure that rocks through him every time Omi sinks in to the hilt. The satisfaction he gets hearing the harsh gasps the feeling keeps stunning out of Omi.

At some point, their foreheads end up pressed together, and Atsumu has to close his eyes to keep his vision from blurring. He can hear the stuttering rhythm of his hand on his own dick, too, the quiet, telling slap of skin against skin.

“‘M’close,” he thinks aloud, and Omi rears back a little to look down at him.

Atsumu can’t imagine what he must look like, laid out under Omi, legs wrapped tightly around his hips, heels digging into his ass to urge him on, to press him deeper. He must be red all over, at least from his belly up. Every inch of him is moist with sweat—only some of it his own.

Omi’s unfairly pretty, even like this. Haloed by the butter-warm glow of the bedside lamp, curls damp and mussed, a pretty flush burned into his cheeks to match the bitten-red pout of his slack mouth, and that midnight-dark stare of his, set under eyebrows pinched in pure, plain pleasure.

“I’m going to come,” he gasps out, eyes fluttering shut, hips shoving forward, and Atsumu chokes on his answer.

The pace picks up before he can prepare himself for it, and Omi drives in hard and fast, chasing his own release single-mindedly. The strength of his thrusting drives Atsumu up the bed and send sparks of sudden, star-bright pleasure through him, from his toes to his teeth. He clenches his jaw and reaches up to brace a hand against the headboard before Omi brains him on it with the sheer force of his strokes.

“Omi,” Atsumu gasps out, the syllables literally fucked out of him. “Oh, _fuck_ —”

Omi stays close, hovering just a few centimeters away, and Atsumu watches with near reverence as a bead of sweat slips from his hairline, over his brow, down to the upturned end of his nose where it drips onto Atsumu’s cheek, right where tears keep coming, coming, coming, the result of Atsumu’s persistent oversensitivity.

_I always cry_ , Atsumu said earlier. And it’s true. Here he is getting fucked like Omi’s trying to go _through him_ and jerking himself off like it’s goin’ out of style and cryin’ about it all.

“Omi—” he says again, voice hard at the edges. A warning. A threat.

Omi’s hand goes taut on the sheets next to Atsumu’s head. Atsumu turns his face and presses his teeth to the jut of his wristbone, grazing over the paper-thin skin and the dark moles dotted there.

“ _Tsumu_ ,” Omi says sharply, voice cracking on the end. “I—”

Watching Omi come is like nothin’ else in the whole world. Atsumu’s seen it enough times to sear it into his memory: how he goes rigid all over, ‘cept for his lashes which flutter like butterfly wings as he fights to keep his eyes open through it; how the muscles in his abdomen jump, and his hips twitch, and his dick gives a single, hard jerk as he spills all over; how it sometimes jerks a little gentler after that to squeeze out what’s left over.

This time, he’s too close to appreciate all the little details of it, too close to do anything at all but tighten his own grip and fuck up into his hand over and over and over again until his back is arching, his ass is clenching (the way Omi moans for that isn’t lost on him), and he’s coming in a burst of too-hot, too-much, too-good feeling that makes his vision white out at the edges a little bit.

He’s not fully aware of what’s happening when Omi slides out of him. He’s barely aware that he’s still conscious by the time Omi’s collapsed on top of him, their bodies drenched with sweat and the air heavy with the moist, heady stench of sex.

“Good job, buddy,” Atsumu manages to wheeze while he lifts a hand, pats Omi’s shoulder, then leaves it there.

“You’re cleaning up,” Omi says as he buries his face into Atsumu’s armpit and melts.

What a pair they make like this: boneless and limp.

“Yeah,” Atsumu agrees groggily. “That’s fair.”

*

It’s a while before either of them summons the strength or will to move, though. Omi starts to get restless first, probably too aware of the tacky feeling of sweat drying to stay settled. It’s always fascinatin’ to watch his brain switch over from horny-enough-that-this-is-okay to no-longer-okay. Atsumu could watch the journey play out on his face a hundred times over and never be less interested in it.

What a strange gift it is, bein’ the guy who gets to see it happen up close and personal. He’s never quite sure what to do with that. What could anyone in his shoes do? Figure out a way to be _more_ ass-over-tea-kettle for the guy?

“Shower,” Omi grumbles, pushing himself up to his feet where he sways a little.

“Don’t hurt yerself,” Atsumu teases.

After half a dozen halfhearted attempts, he finally manages to curl forward and sit on the edge of the bed.

He feels strangely, distinctly empty. And also very sticky. It’s annoying, but he’s too tired by half to bitch about it. Instead he watches fondly as Omi stumbles off towards the bathroom, waits to hear the shower groan and start, then climbs to his feet and gets to work stripping the bed. The sheets and blankets they brought from home are mint green, have that familiar tea tree smell to them, and feel impossibly luxurious in Atsumu’s damp hold.

Once the bed’s all put together again, he wanders into the bathroom and climbs into the shower behind Omi, who’s curled forward with his forehead pressed to the cool tiles. For a while, Atsumu keeps his distance and watches the water sluice down the planes of his broad back, running over the dozens of moles dappled across his pale skin.

Eventually he asks, “Give up on gettin’ clean?”

Omi makes a weak, annoyed sound. “I’m just tired,” he insists, and the way the words mush together in his mouth makes him _sound_ it.

“Ditto,” Atsumu agrees. He reaches for the shampoo and pours a generous amount into his hand. “Have you washed yer hair yet?”

No response. For a moment, he thinks Omi’s fallen asleep right there, on his feet and in the shower. But then he shakes his head, shoulders curling in like he’s embarrassed to admit it.

“C’mere,” Atsumu says. “Tilt yer head back.”

Omi does as he’s told, allowing Atsumu to sink his soapy fingers into the dark, heavy mass of wet curls and start scrubbing at his scalp. He’s a good enough person and boyfriend to resolve to keep the soft, sweet sounds Omi makes to himself.

The routine of it all feels familiar now. Maybe that’s the thirteen months talking, or maybe Atsumu’s just slowly but surely becomin’ a big ole sap. Either way, he guides Omi through the process of showering, teeth brushin’, and face masks until they reach the point that Omi looks about two seconds from fallin’ flat on his face and Atsumu’s too relaxed and worn out to be certain he’d catch him in time.

“Bed,” he says with finality, and Omi makes a sound like he’s never heard a word he agreed with more.

There’s routine in this, too: Omi sliding into the left side of the bed, fresh and clean and soft, lookin’ like the prettiest damn thing Atsumu’s ever seen. He lays on his back and blinks blearily up at the ceiling while Atsumu crawls over him to the other side, wrestles with the blanket, and aggressively shimmies under it.

“Side,” he insists, nudging at Omi’s shoulder and ribs until he gives in with a low, grumpy groan and finally turns over, giving the broad expanse of his back to Atsumu, who doesn’t hesitate to curl up against him and shove an arm under Omi’s neck and their shared pillow.

“Ow,” Omi complains flatly.

“That didn’t even hit you!” Atsumu snaps back. “Would it kill ya to let me get comfortable over here?”

Instead of answering, Omi just yawns. It’s a wide, noisy thing, and Atsumu ends up burying his smile in the nape of his neck, trying to tamp down the fondness that’s taken root in his chest.

“Night,” Omi says.

Atsumu nods, shifting his hips a little to settle deeper into position. It’s rare that Omi stays in a spooning mood for long, so the sooner they both fall asleep, the better.

“Night,” he murmurs against Omi’s skin.

For a while, they’re quiet. Their breaths even out. Their heart rates slow. Atsumu’s body starts to feel heavy and distant all at once.

Before he slips all the way asleep, he surfaces just enough to say, “Throw another match point serve and I’m dumping you.”

Tucked into the curve of Atsumu’s arm with his head bowed at an angle that only _he_ could find comfortable, Omi lets out a breathy, delighted laugh. High and soft, barely more than a whisper. It’s the prettiest thing about him in a whole barrel of pretty things. It’s a sound made of moonlight and stardust and all the wonders of the universe.

The sorta sound Atsumu thinks he could fall asleep to for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> this was an exercise in laughter and joy and writing the sorta sex scene that makes my heart sing. i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it! if you did, please consider leaving kudos, comments, bookmarks, etc. you can find me on twitter and talk to me about all things haikyuu and sakuatsu at [@bratsumu](https://twitter.com/bratsumu).


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